So, stepping away for a moment from the more creative aspect of my writing, I’m just going to vent a moment.

Naturally, as things get to going in forward direction, something happens that causes me to gather the blue back around me. For my family, I’m sorry. You don’t deserve my frustration, and at times I find it hard to control.

Things are going great really. I am fulfilling my dream of sight with an appointment for a Visian implant to fix my vision. I am about to start my practicum and not only get experience, but see the halfway mark in my journey to possibly incredible happiness (or at least a really fun, new adventure). And I have taken matters into my own hands in order to continue the line of my beloved dog through puppies. So many dreams coming to a culmination. And yet, I find myself in a hizzy last night. As cool and collected as I am at work, and as much as I pretend I have everything together, I can be a mess at times.

And why, you ask? I suppose it’s very similar to where I was almost seven years ago. Desperate for a way out of my lovely life because I was feeling so lost and alone and misunderstood that I was willing to end that life altogether. The difference now being that I’ve grown out of that time when I thought death would fix things. Doing things fixes things, not giving up. And doing things has done me a great service in growing myself and getting me to this point in my life. But that bleak feeling is a beast I still haven’t conquered all the time.

So, I went to a concert this past Friday. Andy Grammar. BEST concert I have ever been to. I’ve seen the lights and the fireworks and the even the acoustics of Red Rocks. But I have never seen an artist so in love with his work. The venue was perfect, and very intimate in a way because it was smaller than normal venues. I watched in blatant awe as he played a selection of instruments and even did a little beatbox, singing in perfect tune and interacting with us like he had been here countless times before. But more than that, why he was really good, was the way he sang. I have his music. He’s on the radio and when I first heard his voice on that download years ago, I loved the sound. He’s grown since then, as have I. But watching him do it, being there in person, was…magic. The fun songs are full of energy and you can’t help but get excited. But his deeper songs, my God. You can FEEL them. Every emotion, every strand of hurt or wonder or love. It made you wish every song was about you. That you could make someone feel and sing and express himself like that because of you. His voice penetrates in such a beautiful and daring way that you perk up and listen. I can’t explain it. It went into me. It was amazing and invigorating. A true artist. A legend in his own right.

That night was like an adrenaline rush. I felt so invigorated after the performance and happy as if anything was possible. And then something twisted, like when you bend the wrong way and strain yourself. That thought, unbidden, returned. It didn’t even voice itself really, I just felt something was wrong. Unable to let things go, I sat and tried to analyze it. By the time I figured it out I was full blown mad at myself for letting the blue back in and the weak feelings return after a while being fine. I guess it’s a learning process and I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. But I can’t help but feeling badly for feeling like I might need something when I have so much. I want love. Not just any love but the right love. I’ve been alone for almost two years now. Not even a sniff of anything real. I want someone who sings those songs about me. Who can feel so deeply that his voice might carry it. I long for someone to share myself with and build a life with and speak to about my secret feelings. My family is so amazing and we are building in our own future together. But there’s that hole there. Little, like a snag in a sweater. Some little thing you keep messing with and is at the back of your mind all the time. Do I need to fix the tiny hole? Need is a big word. I do need it in a way, but I’m good alone too. Strong and capable and good. I want to fix it. I want to feel like my sweater is seamless and stronger than it had been.

The closer I get to thirty, the more I feel as if the tick of a clock is getting louder. I feel my life becoming a Lifetime special, or else I’m becoming a confirmation of a societal stereotype about the modern woman who breaks the secret code of life’s order. Everyone keeps talking about freedom as the kids get older. That I’ll only be in my early forties by the time they’re grown. But to me, that seems so far away. That seems so much older than I want to be when I have time to find someone special. But what’s your option when you have your kids alone and young? I’m not finding someone for just me. I’m finding US a special someone. And that worry is very real.

There’s a worry for single mothers. About finding the right someone to not only be a partner but a model for children. That the love you find will be the example for how they pick their own partners. And how can we accomplish this? How can we bridge the Grand Canyon?

I wonder where God is in all this. I feel so alone sometimes, yelling up in vain on a silent tongue. I feel at times as if I let him down. I had a ton of potential and I squandered it on men, and got responsibility as my reward. It was what I needed at the time though. I needed something to make me make decisions and get up out of bed when I just wanted to die. I probably wouldn’t be where I am today if it hadn’t been for birthing two little responsibilities. I would have taken longer to wake up, to fight for what was right, to ask for what I needed. He knew what I needed. Those kids saved my life.

At this point, I suppose it’s a waiting game. I need to grow myself and learn as much as I can in the interim. I will have to try to not find myself down, and if I do get down then to pick myself up more quickly every time. Waiting is no easy task. But if I can find the kind of love hiding in Grammar’s voice, then it will be worth it. It hurts so badly some nights, but many woman have it worse. I was one of them once.

On the bright side, this venting helps. And the darkness has faded to blue. Back to the drawing board. And the bed so I can forget it all for a few hours.

Goodnight all.

Dear you,

I am sitting here and wishing it wasn’t without you. I’m sitting here and wishing I could turn to you and get your opinion, your comfort, or show you something funny. I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me. How much I need you here to understand me. I want to talk to you about my crazy theories about the stars or books or the spectrums of the mind. I want to hear your darkest secret or about that time you felt the dark creeping up against you. I want to hear how much you love pasta or ravens or first person shooter games. I want to laugh about that time we fixed the sink together and got all wet and laid on the bathroom floor joking about the gnomes in the pipes. I need your touch. I need you to tell me that everything will be okay and that it’s alright that I ate cream puffs for dinner simply because I didn’t feel good. I need you to tell me I’m beautiful when I need a shower. I need you just to talk to me about nothing or rub my back. I’m sorry I’m so emotional during certain times, when the memories return and I can’t stop the tears. I’m sorry I hate washing dishes. I’m sorry I don’t know how to act when it comes to a “normal” relationship, I’ve had to be the “man” so long I don’t know how to do anything else.

But most of all. I love you. And I miss you. And I am praying everyday for the man you are and the man you need to be. I’m doing my best to grow everyday to become the woman you need for us to be just as great as we are in my head. I want to be capable of doing whatever it takes, and I know I am. I am waiting for you. And I’ll be looking out the window for you to come.

What beautiful silence must follow death. What serenity in falling into the damp earth, covered like a blanket of sleep. No past. No future. Just present tense. Just fading into the black of memory. How sweet it must all seem, from that horizontal angle; to look up to the stars above, to feel the flowers and long grass tickling your face. What beautiful sorrow might we find there, among the things that have passed. Comrades against time lying shoulder to shoulder beside us. All together, for once, and looking up. The sunlight warming our cold bones pulls the wisp from inside us, traveling out and up and around. How quiet it must be, not even a heartbeat to drum out time. The deafness of the grave. The quiet of the mind. How still, bodies languidly sleeping, stretching out like cats tongues. The rough edges are gone, it was all just an eventful dream. It was all just a temporal beast of displeasure and recourse and love. How beautiful forgetting must be. How wonderful must the hollow of mortal existence feel erupting, breaking down. Death must be peace. Death must be rest. Death must be the beginning of something beautiful.

Oh death, you evade and persuade. You draw and you linger, yet never staying for a moment. You are quiet. You are a shout. You are the last moan of breath, stealing life like a kiss from a lover.

He draws they say. He draws well. Why couldn’t he draw a life for us? Why couldn’t he draw a love? He surely drew the love out of me. But he couldn’t draw a change.

Death comes. An un-death. A faker, a trick. It’s worse than death, surely. This moan of the heart. This aching in the soul.

Stop now! This post is in no way uplifting, encouraging, or inspiring. This post is simply me, whining and barking and fussing over the same stupid stuff. Nobody wants to be that friend, and no one wants to have that friend, so you should stop now.

Really.

If I could just forget, I could stop hurting.
If I could just find some way to not care.

Cause I want to know. Its compulsive. It’s better to know, right?
It’s such a deep hurt. An addiction of sorts. His touch. A look. Days where thoughts have me reeling, anxious and dizzy and swarming.
And he’ll be out there tomorrow. Out there but out of reach. Out there with her. She’ll touch him and he’ll touch her and they’ll have a quiet moment together. Warm against each other’s skin in the brisk night air.
I wonder if he knows. I feel dumb, absorbed and used. I hate it, and hate myself for feeling it. Especially when all his faults are beyond obvious, they’re practically outspoken.
Especially when he’s everything I most assuredly don’t need. Especially when he really just can’t be what I need and shouldn’t be what I want.
How it must feed his ego. How it must make him grin and smile. To see me as I am. To know the agony it causes, and know I stand confused. How he must strike close to joy every time he hears the kids cry. How he must revel in it, a cool drink on a hot day. He must feel it all the time. This town is built for it.

It’s not me. It’s not 23-year-old behavior. It’s not the thought process of a mother of 2. Or any sane person. I hate him for it. But in realizing it’s not his fault I can’t. I suppose I hate him for being who he is, and that’s not fair…is it?

I look to the skies and cry out: why? Why, for I don’t understand. Why because I’m not “me” in all this.
This isn’t me. I’m not this..needy. This terribly soppy, weak person. I’m not normally prone to holding on in this way. I’m the one who walks away. I’m the one who gets over it. Sure, I write and write, collect music and mope for a couple of weeks, but not this. I’m the one who gets pissed, not the one who melts.
And now? I’m terrible. I’m sad and sorry and spent. And saying it out loud only makes me sound more weak and foolish.

I’m exhausted from it. But it’s a quarry I can’t help but chase. Like a dog who sees a rabbit and follows ’til they’re miles from home.

I keep telling myself that I’ve felt this before. I make it a falsity. I make it a deception. And perhaps it is. Perhaps another week will pass and it’ll be done and over. Perhaps it’s just me annoyed that I’m alone and everyone else isn’t. That he isn’t, and that he’s punishing me or looking down on me. Could that be it? Can I make it be that? Please?

But I can’t sleep, for I dream. I can’t listen to music. I talk to myself all day, playing out scenarios. I can’t concentrate! It’s driving me crazy. To get away from other things, you can simply do something else. But this? I’m stuck in my head with myself. And frankly, I could have better company right now.

I wish it were as easy as having a conversation with my brain:

“Hello there, Brain.”

“Hello there.”

“Nice weather.”

“Yes.”

“So, I’d like you to please abdicate me from all responsibility of thoughts about a certain someone…promptly.”

“Of course.”

“Good. Carry on.”

“Mmhhmm.”

And then we’d all live normal lives! Boom.

But no. We have to be complicated so that even our own intentions and expectations are a mystery at times. Yay, humanity.

For now I guess I’m stuck. Stuck pushing forward and up, and silently waiting for it to leave already. Moving forward and being a good mom, chasing my endeavors, and always keeping lookout for the horizon.